


Take this dress off me

by Nathamuel



Category: Outlast (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Background-Waylon Park/Lisa Park, Blow Jobs, Cheating, Crossdressing, Disturbing Themes, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Forced Crossdressing, Hopeful Ending, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Panic Attacks, Past Sexual Assault, Permanent Injury, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Trauma, bottom!Miles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-12
Updated: 2016-11-12
Packaged: 2018-08-30 14:14:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8536327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nathamuel/pseuds/Nathamuel
Summary: Eddie had Waylon in his clutches for two days and now Waylon couldn't take the dress off without panicking.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah that's a lot of tags for something rather short. I'm just trying to stay on the safe side. If I forgot to tag something let me know. ^^

"Why are you still wearing that?"

It wasn't the first time that Miles had asked him that. In fact it may be the dozened time he was asking in so many weeks, ever since they had escaped from the Mount Massive Asylum. Too bad Waylon still had no answer for him. Two days Eddie had had him in his clutches and now... every time Waylon meant to take the dress off he began to shake. Maybe it would have been different if he had seen Eddie die, to see his corpse at least, but the Walrider hadn't left enough to be recognizable. Every time he tried to take it off he felt as if Eddie was going to come through the door and demand to know what his wife was doing, taking her clothes off like a slut.

Waylon began to tremble.

At least he hadn't cut off any of Waylon's body parts or he would have been dead, died in that horrible institution. Waylon shuddered and Miles clasped his shoulder before briefly leaning into his back. Lately they had started touching more, ever since Waylon had moved in with Miles. Something still prevented him from going home. 

_Don’t let Lisa see you like this._

Logically, he knew that his wife would help him, but a small nagging voice in the back of his head was asking: _What if she doesn’t? What if she is disgusted with what you did?_ At least his hair was growing back from where Murkoff had shorn it off. It was one thing that was going back to how things were. The only thing.

A little part of Waylon still flinched whenever Miles moved too fast, even though Miles wouldn't ask him to get on his knees. At least Waylon didn't think so. If he hadn't asked by now he wouldn't, right? Waylon wasn't going to offer, not like he did with Eddie. _Like a whore._

It had prevented Eddie from touching him at least, even if he had still called him a slut, fondly this time. Waylon would have done anything at all to keep Eddie's mind off of what Waylon had been born with, what he was hiding underneath the dress. The hall with the mutilated corpses hanging from the ceiling was still too fresh in his mind. He shuddered at the birthing scene he had come across. Even if his body had been right for Eddie, he would have still died… 

"We're not in _that place_ anymore, Wayl," Miles said, spat the words out as if they would burn him otherwise. For a moment his fingers, three instead of four on each hand, dug into Waylon’s sides until Miles made himself relax again. The bruises would stay anyway. “Sorry,” was muttered into Waylon’s neck guiltily.

They were different. While Waylon found himself flinching at every shadow Miles got _angry_.

The first time Miles had pushed him into a wall Waylon had pissed himself, one memory triggering the other. Waylon had stepped up behind Miles, startling him and then Miles had him against the wall, bruising his back and snarling into his face as the Walrider had hovered behind him threateningly. The urine had felt hot and humiliating, running down the inside of his leg and he had whimpered, both in pain and fear. Then Miles face had cleared as he had snapped back from the place he had gone to in his mind. His face had been horrified as well. A moment later he had been at the other end of the room, profusely apologizing as Waylon had limped into the bathroom and cleaned himself, Walrider nowhere to be seen.

For just a moment he had though Miles would kill him.

It hadn't happened again since. That had been the first time, too, that Miles had asked about the dress.

"Why are you still wearing that?" His back had been to Waylon and Waylon hadn't replied, eyes fixed on the Walrider hovering around Miles. His throat had tightened up and he had sat in one corner of his room until he could breathe again, until the Walrider had disappeared, merging with Miles once more. The ghost hadn't even been the most horrifying thing he had seen in the asylum, but he could still remember Jeremy Blair's blood and guts raining down on him.

"Why are you still wearing that?", Miles asked again now, face angry and questioning. Lips pressed into a thin line when Waylon didn't reply.

Then there were hands on his chest and the wall at his back. 

"He's _dead_ , Waylon!", Miles almost shouted at him. Waylon couldn't answer, throat closed up again at Miles’ aggression.

"Have you forgotten that you have this?" Miles hand was on his cock, palming him roughly through the fabric of his dress. Waylon tried to back further into the wall, get away from the touch. Miles' face looked awful. The man could be dead-pan and sarcastic, cruel even in his words, but usually it wasn't directed at Waylon. Now there was a crazy glint in his eyes. Then his face shuttered and he backed away. The mood swings were the worst for both of them.

"Jesus, Waylon, I'm sorry," Miles whispered. His face crumbled. Waylon saw Miles' hands shake when he pushed them through his hair and then down over his face, hiding his expression momentarily from view. 

"It's ok," Waylon said, but even to himself his voice sounded scared and small, insincere. He clasped his hands together to stop them from shaking, hunching a little. 

Miles let out a humorless laugh and backed up another step. "It's really not. That fucking place..." He trailed of. "I won't- I wouldn't-" Miles stopped again with an angry exhale.

"Won't what?" Waylon asked. Sometimes Waylon felt as if he had developed some kind of masochistic streak. He didn't want to know what Miles didn't plan on doing to him. Before the asylum he hadn't even been aware what people could do to each other. He wished he hadn’t gained that particular insight. Ignorance had been bliss.

"I'm sorry," Miles said again instead of answering, shaking his head. He didn't say another word the rest of the day. 

That night, Waylon woke up from a dream that followed him around ever since they had left the place. It wasn’t always the same, the person changed, Eddie, Frank, Jeremy and now, aroused and ashamed, he imagined what it would be like if Miles had continued his ministrations, fucked him there against the wall, against the bed, like a woman, bleeding from where Eddie had cut him open. Waylon heaved and stumbled out of bed, throwing up once he reached the bathroom. At least he didn’t have to clean the floor again. At least he hadn’t woken Miles this time. He didn’t think he could bear to look at his face with the fragments of the dream playing in front of his mind’s eye again and again.

"Waylon?", Miles asked into the silence of his apartment a few days later. They had made leeway towards exposing Murkoff. Or Miles had while Waylon stayed holed up in the apartment, still too scared to take off the dress unless it needed washing, carefully not looking into the mirror. It had only been two days, he told himself, but it did nothing to keep his hands from shaking until the dress was safely covering him again. _Hurry, hurry, or Eddie will see you like this. Don't give him reason to cut you open._

He _hated_ it, himself, the situation, the hand that faith had dealt him. Time healed everything, so why wasn’t he feeling better? Occasionally Miles returned covered in blood. It didn’t make Waylon feel better that people were after them. Or had it been a mugging turned bad for the criminals? Waylon didn’t ask and Miles didn’t offer. 

Miles said his name again and Waylon cleared his throat. He hadn't spoken for so long. "Yeah?" How long since they had run? Time passed so slowly and other days so fast Waylon lost track of the days. Weeks? Months? 

Across the room, Miles rolled over in bed and Waylon put the book he had been reading away. There was a thoughtful look on his face. 

"Would it help if I sucked you off?"

Waylon's fingers smoothed nervously over the pattern of his dress. A wedding dress. Eddie hadn't been good with anything concerning time. Waylon had been wearing the wedding dress for days until Eddie had stumbled over the Walrider, or Miles had stumbled upon Eddie and his hall of hanging corpses.

He cleared his throat again. "Why would you want to blow me?", he said, his voice came out more steady than he would have thought possible. Inside, he felt like he was shaking apart. No wonder Lisa didn’t want to see him. 

_Wait, you didn’t speak with her._

Miles tilted his head from one side to the other. The Walrider was nowhere to be seen, safely tucked away inside of Miles’ blood or has save as that could be.

"Do you want to take off the dress?" A slightly different question this time. 

"Yes," Waylon said, soft and barely audible. And he did. He had never wanted to wear a dress, but now he couldn't seem to take it off. He _hated_ this dress. It was like an artifact of every bad memory he had made in the asylum, an altar to it and _he couldn’t take it off_. 

Miles moved so he sat on edge of the bed. There were a couple of feet separating them. 

"But you're too scared to?", Miles asked. There was no judgment, but it still took Waylon a solid minute to nod his head, not looking at Miles, fingering the rough texture of his dress. By now the white had yellowed. It hadn’t been particularly pretty before, either.

Miles let out a sigh. "Maybe a blow job will help remind you that you're not Eddie's bitch." He let out a humorless laugh. "Or maybe I just want to have sex." 

Waylon looked up while Miles rubbed his palms furiously over his face. 

"You know, some nights back I tried to pick someone up, let off some steam, but they couldn't stop looking at my hands," Miles admitted. Waylon's gaze fell on his fingers. Healed over now, courtesy of the Walrider, but the bone was still starkly visible. Miles said it didn't hurt.

"Yeah," Waylon said. "I've been having... dreams..." he trailed off.

"The ones that make you throw up?", Miles asked and Waylon nodded, returned his gaze back to his own hands. His heart was racing despite himself. It did that a lot lately. Miles had reported the same thing, albeit more angrily.

"We could try it," Miles said cautiously. "If one of us doesn't like it we stop. Stop means stop, alright?" He tilted his head in question. His eyes were earnest, his face open. Waylon trusted Miles. He had gotten him out of there.

It would be good, Waylon thought, to maybe get off. The dreams had become more frequent. By now he was scared of even closing his eyes. He was so tired.

"Yeah, we can try it," Waylon said after a while. He didn’t used to be so scared. "How do we want to do this?" Sex had never felt so business-like before. With his wife they had fucked whenever they had time and the mood at struck them.

"You could lay back on the bed-"

"No!", Waylon interrupted quickly. It would make him feel like a woman, like someone or something Eddie had wanted him to be in his own little twisted world. Except Eddie had never wanted a girl beyond what he had made himself belief. He had just wanted someone to kill, let out all the rage and hurt he felt inside. There had been flashes Waylon had glimpsed of his past, documents and what he had gleaned from Eddie’s rambles. It hadn’t been pretty. Sometimes when he had slept with Lisa he had eaten her out while she has reclined on the bed, him lying between her legs. He had loved making her moan. Eddie had soured that memory. 

"Alright, not the bed. Standing up against the wall?", Miles offered and Waylon nodded. Standing was good, especially when he was the one standing and not the one on his knees. Eddie had seemed like the kind of guy to wait for marriage until he slept with a girl. No wonder he had wanted to tie the knot so quickly, Waylon thought ironically. Playing along and sending him on errands for their _perfect wedding_ had bought Waylon some time, as had cajoling him into letting Waylon serve him on his knees.

_Don’t go there._

Waylon remained seated. He didn't think his legs would hold his weight until Miles was beside him. Then he stood, Miles’ palm on his arm, steading him. There was only an inch serrating them and for one mad second Waylon thought about kissing him.

"Can I kiss you?", Miles asked and something inside Waylon’s chest momentarily grew all fuzzy and warm. Then he nodded and froze until Miles' mouth was on his.

Eddie had kissed him sometimes, during the short time that Waylon had been his captive. They had been chaste, sweet even under different circumstances. That was why Waylon was thankful for Miles' tongue slipping between his lips. Slowly, Miles walked him backwards until Waylon’s back bumped against the wall, gently this time. One of Miles’ hands was on the back of his head, cushioning him.

Then Miles pulled back slightly. Waylon was breathless. Had it been years already since someone had kissed him like that?

"Still alright?", Miles asked and his thumb circled against Waylon’s skull. It felt nice, relaxing, a breath of fresh air after all the violence. Waylon felt his heart speed up for a different reason. 

"Yeah," Waylon said. This time it was his turn to lean forward and catch Miles’ mouth. He let his tongue slide between Miles’ lips and let their tongues roam against each other, tasting him. 

After a while, Miles pulled back. His eyes were blown and a flush was on his cheeks. Waylon felt warm all over. His breath hitched when Miles slowly sunk to his knees in front of him. Then a sharp stab of lust shot through Waylon, making his stomach twist at the image of Miles looking up at him.

Miles fingered the hem of Waylon's dress before pushing it upwards, not playful, not slowly, not giving Waylon enough time to build up to worrying at what they were doing. Waylon felt a blush forming as he was exposed to the air. His heart was racing and Waylon wasn’t sure if it was ever going to calm down again. He felt light headed. How fortunate to have the wall at his back. He dug his nails into the tapestry to steady himself.

"You're not wearing underwear?", Miles asked, raising a brow at him and Waylon shrugged awkwardly.

"I don't think he really thought that part through," he said and trembled. There had been many things that Eddie hadn't been thinking about, like the fact that people died when you cut them open.

Miles hands soothed over his legs, even and firm strokes. "He's dead," he reminded Waylon. 

"I know," Waylon said. He just had to convince his psyche of that, which was probably the reason why he hadn’t succeeded so far. With effort, Waylon unclenched his fingers from the tapestry, laid instead the flat of his palm against the rough surface. He widened his stance into something more comfortable.

"He can't hurt you anymore," Miles went on. His palms inched up, hot against Waylon’s clammy skin. Why didn’t he hurry already?

"I know," Waylon. It sounded so easy. It wasn't.

One of Miles' hands wrapped around his cock. Waylon flinched, even though the touch was gentle and light. It took almost a minute for blood to fill his cock at Miles’ careful strokes.

"We can stop any time," Miles said sincerely before leaning forward and licking over the head. "Damn, you're big," he commented and Waylon meant to say something back but Miles mouth wrapped around his cock and slid down, all heat and wetness, and he lost his train of thought.

Waylon whined in the back of his throat. The back of his head hit the wall. He opened his eyes and looked down to where his cock was disappearing in Miles' mouth. Miles looked up at him before humming satisfied around the flesh. For a moment Waylon tensed and flinched when there was a hint of teeth.

Miles pulled off. "Sorry," he said, "I wasn't going to bite you or anything. You alright?" His gaze followed Waylon's to the door. It was locked, bolted from the inside but there was still fear crawling underneath his skin.

"Relax, we're alone," Miles said, as if Waylon wasn't sometimes holding his shivering form after a nightmare, as if he wasn't prone to getting up in the middle of the night to check all doors and windows were bolted shut.

"Except for the Walrider," Waylon pointed out, feeling a little more bold with Miles on his knees and his lips swollen. A tingle went down his spine, pooling into his cock, which was jutting proudly from Waylon’s groin, framed by the dress. Suddenly panic threatened to choke Waylon. He wanted to curl into himself, disappear, _run_ , but the door was locked. _It would take too long to open it._

_He needed to get dressed again. Don’t let Eddie see what you’re hiding._

A sharp pinch on his waist made Waylon flinch back into the wall and gasp. Miles was standing in front of him and then his arms were around Waylon’s shoulder, pulling him into his chest. The Walrider was hovering in front of the door. Then it went underneath it and out of the flat. Outside it was night, Waylon knew distantly. He really hoped that none of their neighbors would come across it. 

“You’re safe! Waylon, we’re safe. The Walrider will make sure of that. I’ll make sure of that,” Miles said, repeated it like a mantra until Waylon’s shivering lessened. 

“Yeah,” Waylon choked out and said again “yeah,” in a steadier voice. He nuzzled Miles’ throat and leaned back. “Sorry about that,” he apologized unsteadily. His hand was still trembling when he smoothed his dress out. His erection had gone and he smiled apologetically at Miles who was still staring at him like he had gone crazy. Not that it would be far off. They were prone to stare at one another like that. Sometimes they even laughed about it.

“Don’t apologize,” Miles said and blinked. He shook his head as if to get rid of some thought that had gone through his mind. Or maybe he had only checked on the Walrider. When the Walrider was out and about Miles sometimes zoned out, face blank and eerie, empty. Usually not when he was in the middle of conversing with Waylon though.

“Everything is clear. Walrider didn’t find anything,” Miles added. His arms unwrapped from around Waylon and instead his hands settled on his shoulder. “Do you want to give it another try? I liked sucking you off.”

Waylon shot a worried look at the door. Then he shook his head, as if _that_ was going to dislodge the thought of Eddie being on the other side of it, cajoling him to come out, _come to your husband_. Waylon shook his head again. Eddie was dead. The Walrider had killed him. _Miles_ had killed him when he had stumbled upon the place where Eddie had worked on his brides. 

Waylon wasn’t his bride anymore. He wasn’t _anyone’s_ bride. He was Waylon. A guy, husband to Lisa Park, father to two sons. That was another twist of guilt in his belly. They were like seething snakes. He should go home, but he was a wreck. He wouldn’t be of any use to them.

“We can just stop as well. I’m sure there’s something on TV that we can both enjoy,” Miles said weakly, starting to move away until Waylon grabbed his shoulders.

Waylon cleared his throat. “No, let’s… let’s continue,” Waylon said. Then he pressed down lightly at Miles’ shoulders and something in his belly gave a none-too-unpleasant twist when Miles sank to his knees at that, going willingly at Waylon’s touch.

Waylon's heart beat faster. Another look at the door. The Walrider was nowhere to be seen. He had seen it pick up Jeremy like he weighted nothing, rip him apart in mid-air. Miles had told him about the big guy, Chris Walker, and his death.

Slowly, his heartbeat calmed. Miles nuzzled his cock through the dress, making a tingle walk down Waylon's back and pool in his belly again beside the snakes.

Miles' hands slid up his legs underneath the fabric, pushing the fabric out of the way. Tips of bone scraped eerily over Waylon's skin from his severed fingers. It felt odd, but by now Waylon gotten used to it, even if Miles hadn’t.

Waylon pressed the flat of his own palms against the wall behind him again to steady himself as Miles took the head of his cock back into his mouth. There wasn't even a hint of teeth, only sloppy wet heat that made Waylon buck his hips despite himself. Miles loosely held onto his hips, not moving away. Instead he allowed him to thrust deeper until Miles moaned, throat fluttering against the tip of Waylon's cock. Waylon moaned and laced his hands in Miles' hair, bucking sharply.

"Sorry!", he gasped as Miles gagged and pulled away. 

Miles' chest was heaving and he stroked Waylon's cock as he looked up at him. It was an enticing sight.

"Don't worry about it, Wayl," he panted. He gave him a thoughtful squeeze and looked him over. "You know what would be even better? When you'd fuck me. If you want to?" His voice lifted in a question.

Waylon glanced at the door again before he nodded. 

Miles got to his feet and Waylon followed him to the bed. The dress swished distractingly against his legs, but the thought of _exposing_ himself like that made anxiety twist his belly into knots and his erection flag. Forcibly, he didn't think about it, instead he sat down on the edge of the bed and watched Miles get a tub of lube out of the night-table. It was awkward to wait like this.

Then Miles was back in front of him and undressed. Nothing tantalizing or teasing about it at all, just stripping his clothes off without a care in the world. Except that wasn't true. His brow was furrowed as he stared at Waylon, keeping their gazes locked as if it was a fight not to watch the door, the window, not listen if there were suspicious noises, the scream or curse of a variant. The bullet wounds on his chest and belly had scarred over in the few weeks since he had gotten them. Unnaturally fast, thanks to the Walrider. 

Waylon held himself still until Miles was naked and pushed at his chest to make him lie back. Miles straddled his lap and Waylon's hands flew to his waist on their own accord as he rubbed down against Waylon's half-hard cock through the fabric.

Waylon moaned and Miles did it again with a cocky grin. Experimentally, Waylon rubbed up in a counter motion to make Miles’ moan in turn. If Miles had touched himself since they had gotten out Waylon didn’t know about it. If he hadn’t it explained the eager way he moved against him and how rapidly his cock filled with blood. It was arousing to watch, even if the fabric was an annoyance between them. 

“Can we…,” Miles said impatiently and grasped at Waylon’s dress. Together they pulled the fabric up to around Waylon’s waist and they sighed when their cocks slid together without any barrier between them. Then Miles uncapped the lube and poured it's contents over his fingers under Waylon's breathless gaze. He lifted up and Waylon couldn’t look away when he reached between his legs with the fingers of his left hand. His right was steadying himself on Waylon’s chest. His gaze darted to the door. There were steps outside and then the noise of a door. They unfroze when the world outside the door lapsed back into silence and Miles shook his head in exasperation. He hissed when he let his own fingers push into himself. Waylon unclenched his fingers and soothed over the bruises left behind.

“Uhm, can you- help me?”, Miles said after a while and Waylon tore his gaze away from his moving fingers. There was an embarrassed and _humiliated_ look on his face.

“What’s wrong?”, Waylon asked. He let his hands rub over Miles’ bare waist while Miles seemed to think of a way how to best breach the subject. Whatever it was.

Miles let out a sigh. “You’re big and I don’t have enough fingers,” he finally pressed out and Waylon flushed. 

“Oh- oh! Yeah,” he said and looked around for the lube. While he poured some of it’s contents over his own fingers, Miles scissored his pointer and middle finger inside of himself. 

“Ok,” Waylon told himself and reached for Miles. “Ok.” With Lisa he had never needed lube, although he had fingered her. There had been experiments before, in college, but those were far away. Faded.

Miles was already slick when Waylon touched him, hole spread open around two fingers. Nervous and curious, Waylon let the tip of one finger press lightly against him, before pushing. There was a resistance for a moment, before the flesh gave and let him in alongside Miles’ digits. Miles moan and let his chin fall forward, grimacing for a moment, but giving no indication that Waylon should stop. He slowed anyway, held his finger still until Miles own fingers curled against his and _made_ him move. 

“You’re so tight,” slipped out of Waylon’s mouth before he could stop himself and Miles laughed. 

“Yeah, it’s been a while” he said and grunted when he crooked Waylon’s finger. “Right there,” he hasped and Waylon stroked around that point, watched pre-cum gather on the head of Miles’ cock. “Right there, yeah.” With every stroke of their fingers, with every thrust, Miles loosened up more.

Waylon wasn’t sure how much time had passed before Miles pulled their fingers free. Then his hand wrapped around Waylon’s cock and guided him to his hole. At Waylon’s nod he sat down, sunk slowly but steadily down on him with a wince and sigh and Waylon forgot to breathe. Miles was tight around him like nothing Waylon had ever felt.

Miles stopped. There was a furrow on his forehead that slowly smoothed out as Waylon forced his hips still.

“Thanks,” Miles murmured and rocked experimentally backwards and forwards, testing the weight of Waylon’s cock in his channel, or at least that was what Waylon imagined. His own hands roamed ceaselessly over Miles’ thighs. God, he wanted so badly to pull out and thrust back inside that vice around him. The dress was pushed up around his belly and when Miles moved up slightly Waylon could see his own cock between Miles’ legs, could see himself disappear again in that tight heat when Miles sat down again. 

“You’re such a big boy,” Miles panted and Waylon looked at him, saw by his expression that it was a deliberate choice of words. Helplessly, he grinned back. Something loosened in his chest. Miles rolled his hips and they both let out a moan at the way that moved Waylon’s cock inside of him before Miles rocked up and down until Waylon moved easily inside of him. 

Then Waylon thrusted up sharply and heaved himself upright, when Miles groaned, so their chests were pressed together.

"Let me on top, Miles, please," Waylon said and Miles nodded. Scrambled to get on his knees. Waylon settled behind him and, pulling the dress out of the way, thrust back in. Miles cried out and let himself fall on his forearms, bow his back when Waylon pulled out only to thrust back into him more roughly than he would have thought himself capable.

The dressed annoyed Waylon, it was like a switch had been flipped. It kept getting in the way. He _needed_ to see his cock disappear into Miles. With a erratic motions Waylon struggled out of the garment and threw it away, curled over Miles back and moaned when their naked skin touched. Miles let out an appreciating sound and moved his legs apart. 

The bed groaned underneath their erratic motions, mixing with their noises of pleasure as Waylon grabbed Miles’ hips and pounded into him sharply, over and over again until his balls drew up tight against his groin and he spilled into Miles. 

“Sorry, sorry,” Waylon panted when he saw one of Miles’ arms work furiously. He reached underneath Miles’ belly and joined his hand on his cock, stroked him in time with his own sluggish thrusts. With a choked moan Miles came over the sheets.

"You're naked," Miles gasped while Waylon was still coming down, shuddering against Miles' curled back. Waylon's breath stuttered, everything inside of him freezing up suddenly.

"Shit!", he distantly heard Miles hiss out and then Miles was beside him instead of under him and he was rolled on his side as Miles scooted against his chest.

"Jesus, I didn't mean to ruin the mood. It's a _good_ thing!", Miles rushed out as he rocked him, Waylon alternating between hiding his face in his neck and looking frantically towards the door. 

Waylon whined when Miles fought his way out of his arms. Then fabric hit him and he stared uncomprehendingly at it until Miles started pulling it over his head. Once the dress was back in place, Waylon found breathing easier.

"Sorry again for ruining the mood," Miles sighed. His voice was laced with guilt. 

Exhausted, Waylon patted the arm that Miles had slung around him. "It's ok, Miles," Waylon said, heart slowly easing with his armor in place again.

"It's really not," Miles said as they curled back into each other. “It’s really really not, but we’ll make it, ok?”

Waylon nodded and, feeling bold for a moment, dropped a kiss to Miles’ collarbone. 

“We will.”

For days he had only undressed to get clean. This was progress, even if it didn't feel like it. He had to get better if he ever hoped to go home. 

He just had to.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm thinking of writing more in this verse. Like a part about how Miles and Waylon escaped the asylum and one part where Waylon gets back to Lisa with Miles (aka Miles/Lisa/Waylon cause why not and they deserve a happy ending). Would anyone be interested? Not that it would stop me if no one is. ^^'


End file.
